This was a very fun chapter to write, I cried and laughed, and I hope you do too!

PS: we are officially in season 6 with this chapter.

Finding some peace
Finding a home
Wherever you go there are colors in the sky
Finding a way
Trying to trust
Trying to trust my gut

Painting in shades
Finding someone
Finding a place to call home
Where have you gone my lover
My lover, where

Coming home to you
I'll be by your side
Lovers in the night

Painting in Shades by Faodail

Chapter 50 - Amidst the Beauty of Life

You lean over to closely observe Denise as she carefully tends to the stitching on Tara's head, her fingers gently parting the unconscious woman's jet-black hair that strikingly resembles your own locks. Tara had suffered a blow to the head during the chaotic expedition, the same tragic event that claimed Noah's life. As far as you can tell, Dr. Pete has done an excellent job taking care of her, his work neat and tidy stitch.

The 'Rick' meeting looms just a few hours away, and after sending the people of Alexandria back to their homes, you have reported for your first day on the job. Walking into the infirmary this morning had filled you with a strange sense of déjà vu, as you find yourself back in a familiar setting you once knew so well. The buzzing and beeping of machines, along with the smell of disinfectant, hangs heavily in the air. As you begin to acclimatize to your surroundings, you can't shake the sensation of being out of place, as if the doctor in the old world isn't really you, but rather a distant version of yourself.

"See, it's not all that bad," you declare, offering Denise an encouraging gaze. "You got this."

Her voice wavers, as she replies, "All I did was clean a little bit of the wound. I'm not like you, Dr. Dixon." She shakes her head, her eyes filled with anxiety as they meet yours. "Everything I know is just in theory and books. You know I haven't done my clinicals."

"I'll be right beside you," you assure her, reaching out to gently place a hand on her shoulder. Even though it had only been a few days since you scared the bejesus out of her, she had been persistently showing up at your door every morning, ready for work. "I'll mentor you, teach you all the big stuff. Just think of this as your clinicals, where you're learning everything hands-on."

A wistful smile crosses your face as you think of Beth, the young woman who once wanted to be mentored by you. Now, you find yourself extending that opportunity to Denise. "You can do this, I promise. You can diagnose a cold, stitch up some cuts. You said you wanted to help, and this is where I need you, so I can focus on my research." Your goal is for her to take over for Dr. Pete, who's still on house arrest. You want her to handle the day-to-day tasks until Deanna could decide what to do with the man, but you have a feeling he might be getting the boot too, just like she wants to do to Rick.

"I'm just saying, you're trusting—" Denise's voice trails off as the door swings open and Maggie walks in. Though she greets you both with a small smile, you quickly notice the worry in her expressive eyes.

"Hi," she says, raising her arm in a tentative greeting.

"Maggie, hey, are you okay? Do you feel sick?" you ask immediately, stepping towards her, your brows knit with concern.

"Yes… no," Maggie stammers, clearly struggling to organize her thoughts. "I was actually hoping to talk to you in private."

"Yeah, sure," you reply after a moment's hesitation. You glance back at Denise, nodding a silent instruction to continue her attention to Tara, then motion Maggie toward the back door. You lead her deeper into the makeshift infirmary, and only when you're isolated in the quiet hallway do you speak again.

"You're worried about Rick, about tonight?" you venture, trying to gauge her concerns now that you are alone.

Maggie lets out a heavy sigh and stops, her face betraying her anxiety. "Yes, I'm worried," she admits, desperation creeping into her voice. "I just went to talk to Deanna, and I think she's really goin' to go through with it. This can't be the end, Alie; we can't be out there again, not like before. We need to make this place work," she urges, her voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper.

"Don't worry, I've been working on it too. Deanna can say whatever she wants, but one way or another, we'll make this work," you assure her, reaching out to take her hand. You feel confident after the conversation you had with the people of Alexandria; they seem to be leaning toward you. And if, by some miscalculation, they don't, then you have Merle and a gun. You are prepared to give him the 'go' for his plan.

Maggie clutches your hand tighter in both of hers. "I heard people sayin' that you're leaving if they decide to kick Rick out, that we all are?" she questions, her voice still hushed.

"Yes, I said that to raise the stakes," you explain, wondering if you should have shared the plan with some of the other group members. "So that losing Rick would also mean losing us. But—"

"I'm pregnant!" Maggie blurts, her voice breaking as though the words have been trapped inside her.

"What?" you gasp, stunned by the revelation.

"I tested positive a few days ago. I was going to say somethin', but then Noah happened, and then Rick," she confesses, her brows furrowing again. "We can't leave… I can't be out there, and after what happened with Lori, I need you here."

Even though you are listening to her words, you're unable to explain why you feel as if someone had just yanked the rug right from under your feet. Her words start to blur together as your mind struggles to keep up with the sudden shift in reality. Your heart hammers in your chest, and everything seems to stop as the full weight of her confession settles in. "How many tests did you take?" you ask, attempting to ground yourself in the situation.

"Just one, why?" she replies, a puzzled expression on her face.

"Sometimes they show false positives or negatives," you explain, your mind racing by this unexpected twist. "Let's test again, okay? Wait here." Without waiting for her response, you hurry back to the main infirmary.

Denise jumps as you barge in, clutching a book to her chest in surprise. You ignore her startled look, heading straight for the cabinets where you'd seen boxes of pregnancy tests earlier. Grabbing a box containing two sticks, you rush back out to Maggie, unwilling to acknowledge the emotions coiling within you.

Maggie is right where you left her. Without a word, you hand her the box of pregnancy tests and gently guide her to a nearby bathroom a few doors down the hallway. You find yourself following her right into the bathroom and closing the door behind you. You anxiously tap your feet and turn your back to provide her with some semblance of privacy.

There is the sound of unzipping and the distinctive noise of urine hitting the toilet bowl. "Was it an accident? Does Glenn know?" you question, your back still turned to her.

After a moment, the toilet flushes, and you turn as she comes to the sink to wash her hands. "No, we weren't actively tryin', but it wasn't an accident either," she says, causing your mouth to gape open in surprise as your eyes glance at the two white sticks on the sink.

"We thought we were pregnant back in the prison," Maggie continues, her voice heavy with memories. She sighs and leans back against the wall across from the sink, sliding slowly to the floor as the weight of her thoughts seems to pull her down. "When I wasn't… part of me was devastated." Recognizing that all you can do now is wait for the results, you lower yourself to the ground as well, settling on the cool floor of the small bathroom beside her.

"We talked it over, and we agreed we don't want to be afraid to live, just because the world is scary," Maggie explains, her face reflecting deep contemplation. "We want to build somethin' real, somethin' worth all this." Her hands gesturing around at the uncertain and perilous world you all inhabit.

"How could…" You start to ask, but stop yourself short as you catch the earnestness in her eyes, realizing that your words hold weight for her. Instead, you choose your words carefully, "It's dangerous, Maggie. So many things could go wrong, so many medical complications could happen without modern-day technology." After all, she has seen what happened to Lori; the traumatic delivery that lingers between you two, a stark reminder of what can go wrong.

But it's not just the potential medical issues that weigh on your mind. You recall the difficult times on the road, watching Rick carefully ration Judith's formula, the ever-present fear of scarcity. "Bringing a baby into this world is the ultimate risk, the biggest gamble," you add, your mind dwelling on all the hardships unknowingly that baby has faced. "Just because Judith somehow made it doesn't mean we can count on being lucky again."

"When the flu broke out at the prison, I tried to stop my daddy from goin' in there and helping you," Maggie says, her voice shaking. But as she looks at you, determination mixed with vulnerability shines in her eyes. "But he said, 'You step outside, you risk your life; you take a drink of water, you risk your life; you take a breath of air, you risk your life.'" Her voice breaks, but she presses on. "He said we don't have a choice. The only thing we can choose is what we're riskin' it for."

You look away, struggling with the emotions that well up inside you. The tightness in your stomach, the overwhelming fear, and anguish at the thought of a child having to endure this world's constant threats seem to choke you. Yet, as you grapple with these fears, Maggie's voice pulls you back.

"Besides, nothing is guaranteed now. I could die tomorrow; I could go out like Noah," she says, her voice firm, as she shifts into a kneeling position to reach the sink and pick up the two sticks. "But if I'm gonna die, I want to leave a piece of me, a piece of Glenn, proof that our love existed, that we were here, and it was real."

Her face brightens as a smile breaks across, her eyes welling up with tears as she hands you one of the sticks, but you already know the result before you even look at it, her unwavering determination leaving you in awe.

"I'm not afraid of what might happen to me. I will fight, and I'll face it. I'm only afraid if I let fear hold me back," she declares and you swallow hard, a lump forming in your throat as her words strike something deep within you. A moment of pause stretches between you both as you stare at the blue plus sign on the small screen, tears blurring your vision as the significance of those lines hang like a tangible symbol.

"Hey, what's wrong—" Maggie starts to ask, her hand reaching to grasp yours, but her words fade as she sees your tears. "Oh… I see… All the stuff you were just sayin', it ain't not about me, was it? It's about what you want, but you're afraid," she gently surmises, her eyes filled with empathy.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you meet Maggie's compassionate gaze. "Back when I was younger—I had just turned 17 when I started dating Daryl," you begin, your voice soft as you reminisce about your younger self. The certainty of your feelings for him back then, the clear vision of your future with him, it all comes flooding back. "I had this dream of having a family with him, a few kids, a home close to the mountains with a large backyard, and a few dozen chickens—"

"Chickens?!" Maggie interrupted, her voice high-pitched with surprise, before letting out a giggle. You laughed along with her, wiping your tears away, knowing that as a farm girl herself, her perception of you might not include the images of chickens.

"Yep, then I lost Daryl, and life got busy with school and career," you share, your voice trailing off, your smile slowly fading as you look down. Memories, once buried, now surge forth, and with them, so does your tears. "I buried it deep within myself and never thought about it again. Told myself to never look back because it wasn't real… it was just a dream." Your words are heavy, filled with a pain that's still raw. All you did was run back then, never looking back at your father, your mother, your fiancé, the whole goddamn city. No mountain in Guinea was far enough for you to run, no war zone in Iraq could make you crave home.

You bring your gaze back to Maggie, her face blurry through your red, tear-filled eyes. "That day with Lori… when Judith was born, you went with Daryl to get formula for her." She hums, recalling the event. "I remember watching you guys rush back in, I remember watching Daryl hold on to that baby, I watched him feed her," you say, the image still hauntingly vivid in your mind.

You remember sitting on that prison step, your heart beating wildly as you watched the look on Daryl's face, the tender way he held Judith's tiny body to his chest. "And then there it was, and my whole world just— it was right there, my dream, my future, the man I loved."

You take in a deep, shuddering breath, your voice breaking as you wipe your wet face with the back of your hand. "I remember feeling like my heart was going to squeeze itself to death as I saw my life, what could have been, what could be," you whisper, the weight of those memories pressing down on you. You remember gasping for air in Jamies' arms, your mind painting clear images of children, their laughter ringing in your ears, as if a parallel version of you somewhere in the cosmos got to live out that dream. "That night, I mourned my loss—for what it was, and for what it will never be."

"Why can't it be? What's stopping you now?" Maggie asks, her voice gentle, almost a whisper, as she tilts her head to catch your gaze, squeezing your hand for reassurance. "You are so brave, and smart… my dad used to say that you are one resourceful woman, and if it's a family that you want, then why can't you make it happen?"

You can see the determination and hope on her face as she shifts closer to you, her words imbued with a warmth that reaches into your very soul. "Just because the world is dead, doesn't mean that your dream has to die. Whatever time we have left, it doesn't only have to be about death and survival; it could be about life, it could be about love too," Her voice is insistent, filled with conviction, and as new tears start to pour, she pulls you into her arms.

As you bury your face in her neck, your mind time-travels back to that night you spent with Daryl, a moment carved into the depths of your memory. "We could even get married and have a couple of kids," you had said, the words almost daring in their optimism, "and on lazy Sunday afternoons, I could sit on the front porch sipping coffee while watching you teach our children how to hunt and shoot a crossbow or mow the lawn."

"I'll be a modern woman with a career, but a traditional wife at home," you had declared, "I'll cook every meal, clean up after all my Dixons in our home, and take care of you in every way a woman is supposed to take care of her husband. I'll support you in every way you need me to."

The realization hits you then—you are here now, Daryl is by your side, and you're married, with a place you could call home. There's an opportunity to make that fantasy a reality here, to honor what you pledged to each other under that starlit sky.

As if almost reading your thoughts, Maggie gently pulls back, her eyes searching yours, "You can do it, I know you can. Just talk to Daryl, see how he feels about it," she says, her voice soft but firm, her hands tenderly wiping your cheeks.

You nod, a smile breaking across your face, wondering how she's the one comforting you when you should be the one reassuring her. "Congratulations, Maggie, I'm really happy for you," you say as you pull her back into the hug.

Stepping out of the shower, you find yourself enveloped by the thick, heavy steam that fills the bathroom, creating a soft, mysterious veil of fog around you. As you reach for the towel, your hand trembles slightly, reflecting the haze that clouds your mind at this moment. Water droplets cascade from your damp hair, glistening like diamonds under the gentle glow of the dimmed bathroom light.

With a delicate motion, you draw a circle on the mirror, clearing a small portion of the condensation. You look into your own eyes, but the person staring back at you seems unfamiliar—a stranger lost in a stormy sea of emotions. The weight of despair is etched upon your face, and your cheeks are damp with both the remnants of shower water and unshed tears.

Your gaze shifts downward to the dirty clothes on the floor, soaked in Reg's blood. The memory of his smiling face feels vivid, as if he were still alive, walking in that church, filled with excitement for the future. As a doctor, you've seen death before, even gruesome ones, but nothing has ever affected you as profoundly as this.

The events unfolded with alarming swiftness; you didn't even have time to react. Pete had appeared with Michonne's sword, and in an instant, you went from signaling Jamie to stop the man, only to watch Reg stepping forward to calm the Doctor. Then, with an abrupt finality, it was over.

You had been there to support Reg, but there was nothing you could do medically. Even now, the memory lingers—the warmth of his blood, sticky and shocking, between your fingers as you tried in vain to hold his neck together while he drew his last, gurgling breath. Deanna's wails still echo in your mind, her voice broken, haunted with anguish. In that heart-wrenching moment, she gave Rick the permission to end Pete's life.

With a forceful swipe, you wipe the mirror clean, and your mind drifts to the transient nature of life. It all feels so fleeting, as fragile as the mist that clung to the glass a moment ago. Maggie's words about bravery, risking all for love, and embracing the moment, regardless of how dead the world may seem, resonate with a new, profound meaning after witnessing Reg's sudden, unceremonious death.

You know that Maggie's pregnancy is in its earliest stages, perhaps just two or three weeks along, likely conceived when you first arrived in Alexandria. Yet this knowledge doesn't diminish the reality that she's embracing every precious moment, cherishing memories of those she has loved and lost while living with newfound urgency.

With a deep sigh, you pick up the soiled clothes and head toward the bedroom. There, you notice Daryl's dirty clothes, stained from the blood transferred when you held him tossed on the floor. He had arrived just in time to witness Rick's execution of Pete, accompanied by a new recruit named Morgan. Daryl had gently pulled you away, leaving Abe and Jamie to handle the grim clean-up of the deceased, knowing that the meeting was over. You recall only walking a few steps before throwing yourself into Daryl's embrace. He had held you wholeheartedly, his fingers gently running up and down your back as he whispered comforting words in your ear.

You toss his clothes into the laundry basket alongside your own, retrieving a fresh set of garments from the closet. As you dress, Jamie's distinctive voice drifts through your bedroom window, accompanied by the flickering light of a bonfire from the backyard below.

Your damp hair is quickly twisted into a bun, and you drape a heavy blanket over your shoulders to fend off the evening chill. Thoughts of the meeting still preoccupy your mind as you head downstairs to join the gathering outside.

Everything had gone as planned during the community gathering. Standing opposite Deanna, you had silently observed the proceedings, having already stated your case during your private meeting with the residents of Alexandria. You could see it in Deanna's expression as the gathered group kept glancing your way. Being a seasoned politician and a poker player, she had read the faces around her, realizing that this wasn't just a meeting about Rick, but a political confrontation with her opponent. But when Rick appeared, carrying the gruesome evidence of a dead walker, he didn't resort to aggression. He reached out, and despite their fear and mistrust, the people had heard him.

As you step outside through the back door, an unusual and somewhat unexpected sight greets you. Gathered around the crackling fire are Daryl and Merle, sitting across from each other, Jamie and Rosita occupying the long bench. But it's Denise, seated next to Daryl, that catches your eye. She looks a bit out of place, awkward, but not entirely uncomfortable.

"Ya sure ya smoked before?" Merle teases with a smirk, eyeing Denise as Jamie diligently rolls a joint next to him.

"Yeah, when I was in college. My brother used to bring some," Denise stammers, her fingers fumbling with her shirt. "He said it would help me with my anxiety."

"Good on him," Merle nods approvingly as Jamie hands the rolled joint to the older Dixon. "This stuff's so strong, it could tranquilize a bull, so y'gonna take it easy tonight, alright?"

You make your way over, marveling at how much Merle has changed, or perhaps the once dismissive Dixon has taken a liking to the so-called "little mouse," in the way one does to a pet. Daryl looks up as you approach, pulling an empty chair closer to him, and you sit snugly beside him.

"How is Tara doing?" you inquire, turning your attention to Denise.

"She was up and talking when I left," Denise reports, glancing at Rosita for further input.

"She's doing well. I tucked her in before I came," Rosita adds, and you nod, knowing she had skipped the meeting to be there by her friend's side.

The air fills with the distinct aroma of marijuana as Merle lights up the joint and takes the first puff. Instead of passing it in the usual rotation, he surprises everyone by handing it to Denise.

"You good?" Daryl whispers to you, as watch Denise take her first pull, resulting in a fit of coughing and laughter from the group.

Your attention shifts from the teasing banter aimed at Denise as she tries to catch her breath, and you find yourself gazing into Daryl's dark blue eyes, glowing under the warm light of the fire just inches away. "Yeah, I'm just glad you're home," you begin, and then it hits you, "Did you eat? I can go warm something up for you," you offer, already making a move to get up.

He gently takes hold of your hand, stopping you from rising. "I ate while ya were in the shower," he assures you, nodding to an empty bowl by his feet. You settle back into your chair, the two of you engaged in a private conversation, voices lowered, meant only for each other.

"Why didn't ya tell me all the shit that was goin' on here? I could've been here sooner," he questions, referring to your daily walkie-talkie exchanges.

Of course, you wanted to inform him about Noah and Rick, but you also didn't want to worry him while he was away either. "You were doing something important... you saved that Morgan guy," you respond, recalling the new recruit who would have been out there if it weren't for Daryl and Aaron. "Who knows what would've happened to him if you didn't..." Your voice trails off as you detect a sudden shift in Daryl's expression.

Your brows furrow in concern. Knowing your husband as well as you do, you can read his face like a book. "What is it?" you question, worry lacing your voice. "Did something happen to you as well?"

Daryl's silence stretches out, and just as you're about to press him further, your attention is diverted by Merle, who's playfully wafting smoke in your direction, laughing about something. You take the offered joint and inhale deeply before passing it to Daryl.

As he takes a pull, the moment feels charged with unspoken emotions. He passes the joint to Denise, and your eyes remain fixed on him, though you're still peripherally aware of the others around the fire. Denise skips her turn, and Jamie, whispering something to the woman next to him, receives the joint. Rosita makes a face and rolls her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips.

Daryl's voice draws you back to your conversation. "We didn't save that dude – he saved us," he admits, referring to Morgan. "I ain't want'cha to worry, but we got cornered for a bit, and we found 'em W's or their creepy stash of bodies." He traces a W on his forehead, alluding to the eerie markings they discovered on walkers.

You recall hearing about the W's from Daryl and Rick in passing, something about walkers with letters carved on their foreheads. "Daryl, why didn't you radio me?" you question, concerned about the potential danger they faced.

"Nah, ain't nothin' for ya to worry 'bout. I had a feelin' we could've made it out, and we did," he responds, trying to brush it off. However, you can't help but want to delve further, but you're attempt is interrupted by Abraham as he comes around to the back of the house.

"Damn, you sumbitches," he exclaims, taking in the sight of the fire and the group gathered around it. "I can smell that shit all the way at the gate, and let me tell ya, it's stinkier than a skunk's ass!" He laughs, waving at the smoke in Merle's hand. "Just the way I like it!"

Jamie's mood visibly shifts, and he scoots away, putting distance between himself and Rosita. But Abraham seems too tipsy to notice the awkwardness emanating from the soldier.

"What do ya say, you got room for one more?" Abraham asks, eyeing the empty space next to his girlfriend on the long bench.

"Yeah, come sit with me, Abe," you suggest, quickly inserting yourself, as you rise from your chair and nudging it toward him. As you slide the chair in his direction, you give Daryl a playful smack on the thighs as a brief warning before deftly situating yourself atop him. He lets out an "oomph" in response.

"This is a one-person seat," Daryl mumbles, attempting to accommodate your body as you squeeze half onto him and half onto the chair.

You can feel how awkward he is underneath you, tense and stiff, knowing he's not used to this type of intimate physical contact in public. Despite this, you don't pull away as you normally would, because you've missed him so desperately these past few days, and all you want is to be in your husband's arms right now.

Your heart swells as you pull the blanket over both of you, and his hand snakes under your shirt, fingers gently caressing your ribs. His movements remain hidden, shielded by the weighty blanket ill-suited for the warm weather, and the flickering fire casting dancing shadows mere feet away.

"Damn, where y'all get all this?" Abe says, sinking comfortably into the chair you had freed for him.

"We found a house, ain't sure what it is exactly – could be some dealer's hideout or whatnot," Merle replies, motioning towards the replanted marijuana bush behind him. "But the place was swarmin' with a shit load of walkers, stacked up on fresh and preserved supplies."

As the conversation unfurls, your attention discreetly shifts to Rosita, trying to decipher what exactly is going on between her and the two soldiers. She sits with an unflustered expression, no longer engaged in a hushed conversation with Jamie.

You have a feeling she might be in a situation where she doesn't know how she got herself into. You know she is in a relationship with Abraham, regardless of the age gap between them. But you can sense that there is a part of her that likes the attention from Jamie, and you can't blame her. Jamie is wholesome, kind, and funny, and perhaps he provides her with the emotional connection she may not receive from Abe.

You suspect her romance with the ginger soldier hasn't been that long, likely born out of mutual survival and shared trauma. Perhaps she is just entertaining Jamie, even though he is quite serious about her. You can see it on his face that he genuinely likes her, even if only friendship comes out of it. But you hope she doesn't break his heart.

"Well, one dead man's treasure is another man's blessin'," Abe says, accepting the joint when it rotates to him.

"Amen and hallelujah," Merle says with a chuckle.

You release a heavy sigh, your gaze fixed on the ginger soldier as he takes a deep inhale of the weed, his eyes momentarily closing. Meanwhile, Daryl's thumb tenderly caresses your ribs, grounding you in the present. "Oh, man, I needed this," Abe confesses, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "After seein' Reg's face like that, his throat slit from ear to ear... and Pete, his face just blowin' up like Pompeii."

"Heh, he had it comin', and he paid the price," Merle declares nonchalantly, his voice cutting through the thick haze. "Y'all seen the faces of those people; seein' a man's head crack open like a damn coconut must leave a mark. Hopefully, this is the wake-up call for 'em to see the brutal reality out there." He shrugs, leaning back in his chair, seemingly unaffected by what happened. "In the new world today, sometimes survival means crackin' a few coconuts along the way."

Just like that, you are abruptly transported back to the harrowing scene, your body tensing involuntarily. The lives lost earlier that evening now looms over the group, casting a somber shadow. "It shouldn't have happened, any of it—Deanna just lost her husband and her son days apart," you protest, Deanna's mournful cries echoing in your mind again. "Reg was a good man, gentle, smart, funny, and excited to change the world. He didn't deserve to go out like that, no one does…" Your voice trails off as you remember the joyful face he made when you beat him in a game of chess and how he had laughed heartily at his sons' teasing.

From your side, Abraham lets out a low grunt, his hand burrowing into his jacket's inner pocket before emerging with a bottle of liquor. With the remnants of smoke lingering on his lips, he uncaps the bottle. "To Reg! May he rest in peace!" he declares, splashing a bit of the liquor onto the ground before taking a hearty gulp straight from the bottle.

He then turns the bottle to you, and you take it from him. "To Reg," you say, taking a swig of the whiskey as well. You can feel it scorching its path down your throat, spreading a warming sensation. You then hand over the bottle to Daryl, whose gaze meets yours softly before his hand snakes out of the blanket to take it. Just like that, the bottle of liquor completes its journey around the circle. Each person offering a toast and paying their respects to the fallen man.

A moment of somber silence follows, with some lost in thought while others gazing into the fire. However, Jamie breaks the heavy atmosphere, almost as if attempting to steer the conversation anywhere but death.

"Daryl, I've been meanin' to ask you, brother," he says, pulling out a flask from underneath his seat to roll another joint since there are too many people in the rotation for the effect to truly hit. "Why do you always tie your pants like that?" he asks, motioning to the ties fastened at Daryl's ankles.

"Perhaps it's style, hunter chic, my friend," Abraham teases, a grin lighting his face as he fumbles with the tiny remains of a joint in his hand, greedily claiming the last bits.

This comment prompts an immediate burst of laughter from Merle, who was also hogging the liquor bottle and sipping at the bit of whisky left. "Are ya gonna tell 'em, or should I, brother?" Merle says with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Daryl rolls his eyes at his brother's antics. "Cut it out, she don't like to hear shit like that," he mutters, tilting his head in your direction before dismissively addressing Jamie's question. "It's called the bushman tie. It's a hunter's thin', alright."

Of course, the exchange has only stoked your curiosity. "Something I don't like? Hmm, now I'm intrigued to hear about it," you murmur, shifting your gaze between the Dixon brothers, knowing back when you were kids Daryl never tied his pants like that.

Daryl lets out a sigh when Merle leans over to tell the story. "A few years back, we were up in the mountains huntin', and in the middle of the night, I get rudely awakened by Darlina here, runnin' around like a headless chicken, trippin' over his own damn feet, tryin' to take off his pants," he recounts, laughter bubbling in his voice. "I'm all confused, but there he is, butt naked, freakin' the fuck out, and I shit you not, out of his pants slides out a fuckin' snake the size of my arm," he exclaims, thrusting his intact arm into the air before collapsing into belly laugh.

A collective cringe ripples through the group, accompanied by groans and curses. "I done and told ya that ain't a good spot to camp," Daryl shoots back, and from the expression on your husband's face, you can tell the story is greatly embellished. "I don't even know why I listen to the crap that comes out of your mouth sometimes."

Merle, however, remains undeterred, slapping his legs and throwing his head back in a high-pitched cackle. Despite yourself, you find his laughter infectious. Abraham joins in, while Denise and Rosita pull faces, even though Rosita can't suppress a smile. You yank the blanket over your face, trying to hide from Merle or Daryl's gaze as you struggle to stifle your own laughter at Daryl's expense.

"Dude, call me fucking city boy, I don't care, that's a nightmare! No wonder you fuckin' tie your pants every day," Jamie exclaims, pausing his joint-rolling efforts to shudder at the thought. "Forget the walkers; that's real trauma right there."

You finally manage to peel the blanket away from your face, gasping for air, your cheeks flushed with laughter, tears glistening in your eyes. Your reaction ignites a fresh wave of laughter from the group. Daryl's arm tightens around you, a smile breaking out on his face.

"Was it lookin' for warmth, or did it think it found a friend?" Abe asks, his own laughter spilling forth. "At least tell me everything's fine and in workin' condition!" He says, nimbly avoids your playful swat, your own laughter intensifying.

You're well aware that Daryl has thick skin. Growing up, the jokes and teasing he experienced were far more brutal. But instead of scoffing at you as he usually does, his gaze is warm, and he seems unable to look away, as if your laughter is all he needed to hear.

Still gasping for breath, you turn to the ginger soldier, managing to respond amidst your huffing, "Everything's fine and in working condition," you answer, which triggers renewed laughter from the group.

"Man, those were good times," Merle remarks, accepting the newly rolled and lit joint.

Daryl clicks his tongue as if recalling all the nonsense his brother used to instigate. "Good times for you, maybe," he counters, deciding to share one of Merle's ridiculous stories as well, seemingly trying to get a reaction out of you. "I remember one time we went huntin' with my uncle Jess, and we were trackin' an elk all the way to the peak of the mountain, and these fuckers decide to get high on shrooms."

Merle's smirking face tells you he remembers the incident well. "We've got a strict rule—if ya go past them bear traps, leavin' the safe zone behind, you damn well better let somebody know," Daryl says, and Merle snorts, passing the joint to the ginger soldier. "We get woken up by a holler, and there's Merle, standin' on a boulder like he's some kinda king of the rock, pants down, nuts out, yellin' at a bear like he's in some bizarre stand-off. Turns out, he was takin' a shit when that bear caught up to him!"

Merle simply chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. "I was so high, I thought I was gettin' chased by this chick named Toothless," he says, elaborating more when he sees the confused looks on the others' faces. "There was this prostitute I used to know back in my day, we called her Toothless 'cause she ain't got no teeth."

A whole new round of laughter breaks out. "You dirty dog!" Jamie exclaims, wiping his eyes, while Denise just covers her face.

"Hey now, leave the man be," Abe chides, though his shoulders shake with mirth, his face as red as his hair. "Haven't ya heard of 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder'?"

Your stomach aches from laughter, all dark thoughts dissipating. The moment is a simple one, but the laughter and camaraderie around the fire have eased some of the tension from the recent horrors, and you realize that no matter how dark things may seem at times, everything is going to be alright.

You take a thoughtful glance at Deanna as you both walk slowly side by side along the deserted streets. The gentle morning breeze carries a hint of chill, serving as a poignant reminder that life continues, even when your hearts feel heavy with grief.

Deanna's eyes are still red and puffy from the tears she has shed, her sorrow etched deep into every line on her face. Earlier that morning, you went to check on her, only to find her in her backyard, standing at the very spot where she lost her husband, gazing at the bloodstain left from the night before.

You're at a loss for words—what could you even say in the face of such tragedy? All you can think of is holding her hand and suggesting a walk to get her away from that painful place. As you struggle to find the right words, you hear Rick's distinctive voice coming from somewhere behind the trees to your right.

"We have two bodies," someone else replies, and in that instant, Deanna pauses and heads toward the trees.

"We're not gonna bury killers inside these walls," Rick says firmly, and you furrow your brows at his word as you follow Deanna into the clearing.

There, you see Tobin, standing face to face with Rick, a shovel in his hand. Morgan, the new guy, stands to the side, watching the interaction. "I understand how you feel, I do, but it's not your decision," Tobin says, standing in front of a halfway-dug grave, confronting Rick. Next to him is Gabriel, who is digging another grave. He looks unsure, but the moment the priest catches your eye, he looks down, shame written across his face.

"Tobin, Rick's right," Deanna says, her eyes fixed on the few unknown names carved out on a small wooden pillar before her. "Take it away; let the trees have him."

The situation becomes clear as you survey the area and see the two bodies on the ground. You are standing in the section of Alexandria where a small field has been carved out as a cemetery. Gabe and Tobin are laying Reg and Pete to rest, and Rick is standing against interring Pete within the confines of the wall.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you hiss at Rick the moment he takes a step toward the body. You look around at the people, taking in their expressions. You understand Deanna's decision; she's excusable because she just lost her husband, murdered by the other dead man at her feet. But Rick...

"The man's dead already; it doesn't matter where he gets buried," you state, your eyes burning as you take in Rick's patched-up face. "It's just a dead body now, and there's plenty of dead bodies rotting or roaming outside our gate."

"He's a killer—" he begins, but you step toward him, cutting him off.

"Get off your damn high horse, Rick," you scold, already fed up with all the bullshit he's been pulling the last few days. You've been patching his face, covering for him, weaving and manipulating so people won't turn against him, but even you have your limits. "I'm a killer, you're a killer... your son is a killer," you whisper the last part, knowing that it's a sore spot for him.

You can see it in Rick's face, that simmering look in his eyes, the twitch of his brows. You've pressed a button, but you're not bothered by that look. After all, no one does that look better than your father, and you will call out Rick's hypocrisy when you see it. You meet his stare with your own—cold eyes, neutral face—as you declare, "Everyone is a killer to someone's loved ones. Burial is not about the dead, but the people left behind. It's about family." Your voice rings loud, ensuring that everyone present hears you.

Rick clicks his tongue, his voice stern as he motions to Pete. "He was beating his family," he says, attempting to justify his position.

"It doesn't matter how shitty of a man he was, how messed up of a father he was," you respond, your mind drifting to William Dixon and the terrible abuse and horrifying things he did to his children. Yet Daryl was there, day after day, because there was a part of him that still saw him as his father. "It's not up to you to decide what he means to them. Those are not your kids, and this," you tell Rick, waving toward the open grave, "is for them, not the dead."

With a sigh, you turn away from Rick and give the order, "Tobin, Gabriel, please bury Pete a little further out." You point to the untouched ground in the back, hoping to put at least some distance between the two deceased men, for both families' sake.

Just like that, over Deanna and Rick, they take your order, as Tobin moves, picking up the shovel and heading toward the back. You turn to Deanna, but she doesn't say anything. She just turns and leaves. You start to follow her but pause by Rick's side.

"You have to, Rick, you have to find balance between empathy and logic. Because, one day, when it's your time to go, you'll hope someone will do that for your kids," you say, your voice softening as you press your hand on his shoulder. Morgan, who has been observing you the entire time, gives you a nod as you leave them.

.

Unbeknownst to those in the open, Ron Anderson, the oldest son of Pete, listens, hidden deep in the shadows of the trees. His eyes burn with a mix of emotions as he fixes his gaze on Rick.